


To Comfort a Friend

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Mutual Crushes, Pampering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-16
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-13 09:57:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2146440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the first day Feuilly had joined them, sitting quietly in the background of a meeting they were holding on the benefits of unionization, he'd made a huge impact on Enjolras.  Feuilly had said little that night, but what he had said had shown a clear insight into the discussion from a point of view they had been sorely lacking -- that of one of the local factory workers.  In several short comments, the dark-haired, dark-eyed nameless worker had dismantled several of their key arguments and bolstered others.  </p><p>Enjolras had been smitten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Comfort a Friend

**Author's Note:**

> **_August 16, 2014:_** Presented lightly edited but not beta-read. This piece was a catharsis for me from start to finish because I woke up at 4 AM this morning and couldn't sleep because I was so upset. Drawn almost directly from my own experiences (except that I don't live in an apartment, didn't redo my own bathroom by hand, and didn't get copious hugs and an awkwardly adorable boyfriend out of the deal), this actually happened to me yesterday. But, at least I felt enough better after getting it down on paper and away from me that I was even able to give them a slightly schmoopy happy ending. So... yeah.
> 
> The character death is a minor background original character and the story is more about the after-effects of Feuilly dealing with that death than about the death itself. So, take that as you will.
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/94904509597/to-comfort-a-friend-4086-words-by-eirenical).

Enjolras mid-speech was a sight to behold; like a force of nature captured mid-fury. He was a captive lightning bolt, frozen mid-flash and shedding light into the darkest corners of the mind. So focused was he on making his point, on converting those teetering on the edge of being willing to act, that many assumed he had no attention to spare for more mundane observations.

…many would be wrong.

So it no longer surprised Courfeyrac when the first words out of Enjolras' mouth after a speech were about something completely unrelated to the topic at hand and were about one of their friends, instead. And he'd learned that Enjolras always recognized individual abilities in his friends and he valued Courfeyrac's emotional intelligence as highly as he did Combeferre's logical mind. So, it no longer surprised him that those post-speech observations were often spoken to him before anyone else. Tonight was no exception.

Tonight, when Enjolras stepped down from his makeshift podium, leaving it to Combeferre to start presenting the charts and statistics of the meeting's current issue, it was with a frown on his face, and his brows drawn deeply together. With no preamble, Enjolras said simply, "Feuilly is being uncharacteristically quiet, today."

As Enjolras pulled out his chair and sat down, eyes drawn towards the corner were Feuilly was sitting by himself, nursing a beer, Courfeyrac nodded, "I noticed that, myself."

"Considering that he was the driving force behind our current project I expected him to have more to say." Enjolras turned towards Courfeyrac, an eyebrow raised.

Some meeting nights, Feuilly was naturally quiet. When his work shift had started so early in the day that it might as well have started the night before, he dragged himself to the Musain on nothing but sheer willpower, leaving nothing left with which to offer his own contributions. On nights like those, he would sit in his corner, periodically opening his mouth or half-lifting a hand, but halting before he got even the first words of his thoughts out. His eyes, however, would easily betray that he had thoughts to share, even if he was too tired to voice them. On those nights, Combeferre or Courfeyrac would quietly join him in his corner and act as his voice to share those thoughts, either to the group or privately to Enjolras later on. Tonight, though he had offered, for the first time Courfeyrac could remember, he had been politely turned away, so he was forced to answer Enjolras' raised eyebrow with a shake of his head.

Enjolras frowned, turned back to observing Feuilly. He was still nursing that first beer, drinking from it in an absent-minded fashion, as though he periodically forgot that it was even in his hand. As they watched, he took another pull from his beer bottle, leaning forward over the table when he was done, then closing his eyes and pressing the bottle to his forehead. They watched in silence for several minutes more.

Courfeyrac waited.

Moments later, Enjolras pushed back his chair and stood. He reached down to grip Courfeyrac's shoulder before leaning down and saying softly, "I'll go talk to him," just as Courfeyrac had known he would do. As Enjolras left their table and started working his way around the outskirts of the room towards Feuilly, Courfeyrac smiled. From the first day Feuilly had joined them, sitting quietly in the background of a meeting they were holding on the benefits of unionization, he'd made a huge impact on Enjolras. Feuilly had said little that night, but what he had said had shown a clear insight into the discussion from a point of view they had been sorely lacking -- that of one of the local factory workers. In several short comments, the dark-haired, dark-eyed nameless worker had dismantled several of their key arguments and bolstered others. 

Enjolras had been smitten.

Enjolras kept Feuilly long past the end of the meeting, picking his brain on subjects ranging from workers' needs and fair trade to projector repair and basic plumbing. And Feuilly went with it, his agile mind following Enjolras' as easily as a fish swims through water and never questioning as Enjolras leaped from subject to subject in a way that normally only those who had known him for long could follow. By the end of the night, Feuilly was as smitten with Enjolras as Enjolras was with him.

After that first night, Feuilly was often found in Enjolras' company both before meetings and afterwards. He became as invaluable to their activities as Combeferre and Courfeyrac, with Enjolras often running speeches by him before presenting to the group, at large. He provided a balancing opinion, a different viewpoint than either Combeferre or Courfeyrac, having come from virtually identical backgrounds to Enjolras, could provide. It made them stronger, gave them a wider reach than they'd ever had before.

And if Courfeyrac noticed that sometimes Feuilly brought some remaindered item or some irregular article of clothing with him to fix while the meeting went on, everyone assumed that, like Prouvaire, he just didn't like to have idle hands while sitting and talking. And if Courfeyrac noticed that those unique, half-handmade items always seemed to go home with Enjolras, he smiled and said nothing. And if Enjolras sometimes veered off the path at their local craft market because he'd seen something that he just had to buy, Courfeyrac went with it, accustomed to his mercurial changes in direction, both physical and mental. And if he later noticed Feuilly wearing the shirt or using the pencil set that Enjolras had just _had_ to buy... he also said nothing. It wouldn't do to call attention to it, even if he found it so unbelievably sweet that he sometimes had to bury his face in Combeferre's chest and just scream about it. At least Combeferre was good-natured about it.

So, tonight, when all Courfeyrac's usual tricks to cajole Feuilly into sharing what was on his mind had failed, he bowed out gracefully, certain that once Enjolras was finished with his responsibilities, he would succeed where Courfeyrac had failed. And if his presence proved to be needed later on, Courfeyrac would be ready. To help a friend, he always was.

* * *

By the small, lopsided grin and the beer bottle tipped in his direction, Enjolras could tell he had been spotted before he had even made it halfway around the room. Like Enjolras, Feuilly didn't miss much. By the time Enjolras had reached his corner table, Feuilly had pulled a chair out for him and pushed his plate of mozzarella sticks over. Enjolras accepted the tacit offer to share with a smile. He had a weakness for fried foods that would have been positively unhealthy if he didn't make a concerted effort to eat well and exercise at other times to compensate. He did his best not to give in to that temptation often, but for some reason, when it was Feuilly offering that temptation, he felt more guilty turning it down than he would for the indulgence. Maybe it was knowing that they both got such joy from sharing something they loved. Maybe it was the smile that always spread across Feuilly's face when he saw how much Enjolras enjoyed those occasional indulgences. Whatever it was, sharing it with Feuilly made that enjoyment all the sweeter, so he could never turn it down. Taking one mozzarella stick and foregoing the marinara sauce, Enjolras nudged the dish back over to Feuilly until he took one of his own. But, for a change, by the time Enjolras had finished his second, Feuilly still hadn't touched his first. When Feuilly eventually put his back on the plate untouched to return to his beer, Enjolras knew that something was wrong. Reaching out a hand to cover Feuilly's on the table, he said softly, "Whatever extra burden it is you carry tonight, I wish you would share it."

Feuilly turned his hand in Enjolras' hold, clutching tightly to him and swallowing hard. When he closed his eyes and took in a deep, steadying breath before even attempting to speak, Enjolras knew he'd been right. He shifted his chair closer, leaned over to press his shoulder against Feuilly's and more securely entwined their fingers. Taking that for the invitation it was, Feuilly let his head drop to rest on Enjolras' shoulder. Enjolras barely heard the words that escaped him along with the soft puff of air which shivered across his neck.

"It's nothing."

Freeing his hand from Feuilly's hold so that he could wrap that arm around his shoulders, Enjolras leaned over and said quietly, "You'll forgive me for saying so, but whatever it is, it is quite obviously not 'nothing.' I will not press you, you know that, but if I can help… I would like to."

Feuilly was silent after that, though he relaxed into Enjolras' embrace, eventually putting down his beer bottle and taking Enjolras' hand in his to play with his fingers instead. He ran his own callused fingers over them -- up one edge, over the top, then down the other side, one after the other until reaching his pinky, then ghosting gently across his palm to his thumb to start all over again. Enjolras kept himself as still as he could, watching that hypnotic motion and suppressing the shiver of reaction he felt at that ticklish touch. Feuilly would speak in his own time… or not. And if simply being there was enough, well… Enjolras could do that. Enjolras became so lulled by the soft motion of Feuilly's fingers against his own that he nearly startled when Feuilly finally spoke.

"I put the finishing touches on my bathroom today."

The subdued tone of that statement made Enjolras bite back his initial reaction of offering congratulations. Nearly a month ago, Feuilly had grown tired of waiting for his landlord to send someone to fix the plumbing in his bathroom beyond temporary measures to stop it from leaking into the apartment below his. He was tired of constantly being awoken from what little sleep he was able to get by his apologetic downstairs neighbor coming to knock on his door at 3 AM to beg him to at least turn off the water in his bathroom until the landlord could send the plumber back. He knew enough about plumbing to manage minor repairs on his own, but after the third solid week of problems, Feuilly had begun to suspect that minor repairs wouldn't fix what needed fixing. It was an old building with old plumbing. If something was really that wrong, then the entire bathroom might need to be redone… and in a stroke of luck more reminiscent of Bossuet than Feuilly, that had, in fact, turned out to be the case. Feuilly was given the option to move to another unit so this one could be repaired -- a move which would also neatly cancel the lease which grandfathered him into his fixed rent -- or he could pay to have it repaired himself. Neither were options Feuilly could afford. The rest of their group had, of course, volunteered to help pay for a contractor, but Feuilly had declined. Of course, he had declined. Like Enjolras, he had his fair share of pride. But, unlike Enjolras, he was extremely good with his hands. He was also a quick study. He signed an agreement with his landlord that -- under the supervision of a licensed plumber -- he would do the repairs himself.

This announcement had then resulted in a flurry of activity as everyone in the group wanted to find a licensed plumber who would take Feuilly on as an unofficial apprentice, even though Feuilly had assured them that he already had it under control. To everyone's surprise but Joly's and Bossuet's… it turned out that he did. Grantaire was a licensed plumber. At that revelation, Bahorel had ordered a round of celebratory drinks for everyone and slapped Grantaire so hard on the back that he staggered. "Is there anything you _can't_ do?"

Grantaire had laughed it off, chalked it up as one of the many skills he always claimed to have -- boxing, dancing, fencing, painting, a score of others -- and the only thing involving math that he was in any way capable of, and left it at that. Enjolras had gone home that night with more on his mind than he even usually had. He had more patience for Grantaire's drunken ramblings after that, too, finding that somewhere buried underneath the round-robin of tangents he led himself on, there was a thread of truth and sometimes it was even relevant to their discussion. It took time, but he eventually learned to grab hold of that thread and bring them back on track. Meetings got more productive.

Yet as their meetings grew more productive, Feuilly contributed less and less. Between his myriad jobs, learning plumbing and demolishing and rebuilding his bathroom, he just didn't have the energy he once did. It pained Enjolras to see it, but apart from doing little things for him that, in his mind, didn't amount to much, he didn't see what else he could do. He'd offered to let Feuilly stay with him during the part of the work in which he wouldn't have a working toilet, but Feuilly had politely declined, saying that he already had it covered. Of course, when "having it covered" proved to mean "sharing a bathroom with his downstairs neighbor and showering at work" Enjolras ended up pacing the living room of Combeferre and Courfeyrac's apartment, throwing his hands in the air and ranting and raving about self-sacrificing idiots who were too prideful to accept help when they clearly needed it. 

…at least Enjolras' two best friends were kind enough not to call him a hypocrite to his face. The point was that Feuilly finishing his bathroom should have been a cause for celebration, not melancholy. So why did that not seem to be the case?

Feuilly sighed, shifted against Enjolras' shoulder, the movement of his fingers on Enjolras' hand stuttering to a halt. He took a deep breath, swallowed hard, then took another. All without speaking. Enjolras tightened his one-armed hold around him, and placed a gentle kiss on the crown of his head, but he said nothing, waiting for Feuilly to be ready to speak on his own. Eventually Feuilly did, his voice rough and a hitched breath interrupting his words.

"My neighbor died."

This time, Enjolras couldn't help the startled jerk. As he resettled a jolted Feuilly back against his shoulder and began rubbing circles around his back, he asked, "Your downstairs neighbor? The one whose bathroom you were sharing?"

"No," Feuilly said softly, "My next door neighbor."

Well… that made more sense. Feuilly's downstairs neighbor was a young woman, healthy and not prone to any more risky behavior than simply living in the part of town where Feuilly lived -- which was, admittedly, not the best part of town. His next door neighbor, on the other hand, was old -- in her nineties. She lived with her older daughter, herself in her sixties, her husband having passed away several years before. She had been in good health for her age, though, Enjolras had thought. Feuilly had just been telling him the other day about how she and her daughter had gone out shopping and insisted they pick a few things up for him since she hadn't liked the look of him lately, insisted that he hadn't been eating or sleeping well enough. What could possibly have happened? Enjolras bit back his instinctive desire for details, focused instead on just listening. After another few minutes, Feuilly spoke again.

"It was pneumonia. Very sudden. They took her away in an ambulance three days ago and she died in the hospital the next day. She… she didn't even know her own daughter." Unspoken was the caveat that she probably had not known him, either.

Enjolras pulled his hand free from Feuilly's grasp and wrapped that arm around him as well, hugging him for all he was worth. Feuilly had lived next door to this woman for as long as he had had a place of his own, since he'd become an emancipated minor at sixteen. She'd been a librarian at the local branch where he lived and had been the one to help him file for emancipation. She'd offered to foster him, but he had turned it down, unwilling to take that much from a woman on a fixed income. But she had fostered him in her own way, anyway, acting as an unofficial grandmother and taking care of him as best she could from next door. She was the closest thing to family Feuilly had had. But Feuilly wasn't done.

His breath hitching all the way through his next words, Feuilly got out, "I went to the viewing today. It was open casket -- have I ever told you how much I hate open casket funerals and such? -- and her daughter, Abigail… she asked me what all that banging had been in my apartment for the last few weeks. Because her mother had been so curious and hadn't wanted to impose by asking. I… I never told her. I must have forgotten. I was going to offer to redo her bathroom next, get her one of those tubs that has a seat in it and a door in the side so you don't have to climb over, you know? But she died not knowing that because I never _told_ her." A soft sob slipped out, almost unnoticed, among the hitched breathing, except that Feuilly stopped talking, trembling in Enjolras' arms. At that moment, Enjolras could gleefully have strangled Abigail. To take something Feuilly had been so proud of and so happy with and turn it into a point of such acute pain? That was nowhere even in the vicinity of alright.

A plaintive note crept into Feuilly's voice with his next words. "Now, I can't even walk into that bathroom without thinking of her. I… I actually told my downstairs neighbor it wasn't finished and asked if I could shower in her bathroom tomorrow before the funeral."

Forget strangling. Strangling was too good. Enjolras wanted to cut this woman's heart out with a spoon.

No doubt feeling Enjolras tense against him, Feuilly swallowed hard, and got his breathing under control. He said firmly, "Enjolras. It's not Abigail's fault. She just didn't think. She didn't know."

"That's no excuse. She hurt you."

Feuilly finally pulled away, wiping as unobtrusively at his eyes as he could. He didn't fool Enjolras for a minute. He took another deep breath, repeated himself just as firmly, "She didn't know. And it's OK. I'll… I'll get over it."

Enjolras nodded, reached out to wipe away a tear that Feuilly had missed. "You will. And you will enjoy that gorgeous new bathroom of yours. Because you worked _damned_ hard on it. And from the pictures and everything that Grantaire has said, you did a beautiful job." He leaned forward and kissed Feuilly's forehead. Gentling his voice, he said, "But you don't have to do it tonight." At Feuilly's raised eyebrow and querying noise, Enjolras cleared his throat, mentally swore as he felt the heat rising in his cheeks. "You… you can stay with me, if you want. My bed's more than big enough for two and--" He paused, cleared his throat before continuing, "And if you want, I'd be happy to go to the funeral with you tomorrow."

Enjolras was expecting a protest. He was expecting Feuilly's pride to rear its head and insist he was fine… even though he so clearly wasn't. He was expecting to have to convince Feuilly that this was a good idea.

…he didn't have to do any of those things.

Feuilly melted against Enjolras' side, tucked his head back under Enjolras' chin and, for the first time that night, returned Enjolras' embrace, hugging back as tightly as Enjolras had been hugging him. He said simply, "Thank you."

It didn't take more than five minutes after that for Enjolras to convince Feuilly to leave, pack up his things and get out the door. He wasn't even planning to stop back at Feuilly's apartment. He was going to take him straight home, tuck him into a set of his own pajamas, settle him on the couch, fix him his favorite tea, and pamper the hell out of him for as long as this agreeable mood lasted. Hell, Enjolras had lent him things for job interviews often enough before that he knew they were close enough to the same size. Feuilly could even borrow a suit from Enjolras for the funeral.

From the bemused look on Feuilly's face as Enjolras rushed him out the door, he was only just now beginning to understand what he'd agreed to. He voiced just one word in protest, "But--!" but quieted at the softly determined look in Enjolras' eyes. 

Enjolras paused them at the door of the Musain and pulled Feuilly close in another tight embrace. He said, "Please… let me do this for you. Let me take care of you, just this once."

Feuilly's answer was to tense momentarily… then relax, his arms rising to wrap around Enjolras in return. When he finally pulled back, there was a look in his eyes that Enjolras couldn't read. His brows were drawn together, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks slowly flushing a deeper and deeper pink as Enjolras watched. Moments later, as Enjolras stood absolutely rooted to the spot, Feuilly leaned in and pressed a soft, butterfly-brush of a kiss against his lips. There and gone before Enjolras could even process what had happened, he nearly thought he'd hallucinated it. Only the deep red flush to Feuilly's cheeks remained to give away what had happened. Enjolras could feel his own cheeks heating, as well, and his lips stretching into a grin so wide it felt as thought it would split his face open, his heart pounding so hard he felt dizzy. He swayed forwards and Feuilly caught him, a surprised laugh escaping him before he could bite it back. The second time they kissed, it was slower, somehow even sweeter, and Enjolras finally managed to find his voice again when it was over.

"Come on. Let's get you home before Courfeyrac starts trying to call us back for details."

Feuilly nodded and they turned as one to bustle out the door. In spite of the sadness that had led them to it, Enjolras couldn't find it in himself to be upset at the result. They'd been dancing around this thing between them for so long and, with that one kiss, this was the first time that Enjolras truly understood what it was that they'd been dancing around. And now that he understood -- and even better, knew that he and Feuilly were on the same page about that understanding -- he had every intention of taking advantage of that fact.

* * *

Unbeknownst to Enjolras or Feuilly, Courfeyrac had watched the whole thing with one hand clamped firmly over his mouth and the other holding a hastily written sign in the air that read, "If any of you interrupt this, I will come around to each and every one of your apartments while you're sleeping and stick your hands in warm water." He had no intention of calling them back for details, and he was adamant that no one else would either.

Once the two were safely gone and the meeting room erupted into raucous cheers and babbling, Courfeyrac dropped his sign to the table and himself into Combeferre's waiting arms. He buried his face in Combeferre's chest and Combeferre began softly petting his hair. As Combeferre petted, Courfeyrac let out a small scream, then said, with great vehemence, "It's about damned time!"

Combeferre let out a soft snort and just kept up his petting. "If you think this is going to prevent him from pacing our living room while raving about Feuilly, then I'm afraid you're sorely mistaken."

Courfeyrac popped up, a wide grin on his face. "Oh, I know. But at least _this_ is a kind of ranting and raving that I'm prepared to handle -- and they're so damned _cute_ that I don't even mind!" Their gazes met and both dissolved into laughter.

…and when Enjolras called Courfeyrac in desperation at two o'clock that morning over how adorable Feuilly was when he slept, Courfeyrac was good enough to keep his teasing to a minimum… and Combeferre was good enough to reserve his commentary to a fond eye roll.


End file.
